


With Volumes Left to Choose

by allonsy_gabriel



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Cooking, Coping, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, Gay, Gay Panic, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Episode: e060-066 The Stolen Century Parts 1-7, Sappy, Stream of Consciousness, am i projecting again? maybe., did i make this exact recipe for my girlfriend two nights ago? maybe., i think that's all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:42:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28774032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: t should be a perfect night. Objectively, it is. He’s comfy, he’s cosy, he’s safe. The world isn’t ending, no one’s trying to serve him his own ass on a platter, he’s in a bed instead of roughing it out on the fucking adventuring trail. It’s great, really. Absolutely choice. Could not be better for ol’ Taako.Except…Except, as he’s lying in bed, he finds himself longing for something (someone) to hold on to. He wants something besides his blankets to snuggle into. He wants to bury his face in hair that smells like bergamot and sandalwood and sage, to wrap his arms around a cool, firm torso, to hold and be held and know that when he wakes up in the morning, there’ll be a pair gorgeous red eyes staring at him.
Relationships: Kravitz/Taako (The Adventure Zone), Lup & Taako (The Adventure Zone), that one's implied--lup's still doing time as an umbrella
Comments: 22
Kudos: 44





	With Volumes Left to Choose

**Author's Note:**

> should I be working on Where You're Planted? yes. am I? obviously not.
> 
> ella if you're reading this no you're not <3

Taako is in bed when he realizes it.

It’s late, but not _too_ late—late enough for the moonbase to be blessedly, blissfully quiet as Taako burrows deeper into the mound of pillows on his bed, but not so late that he’ll regret it in the morning—and Taako is settling in after a night of well-deserved self-indulgent pampering.

He’s wearing soft, silk pyjamas dyed in swirling shades of blue and purple, covered in small, metallic constellations that are charmed to shift and move across the fabric like the patterns of the night sky.

He’s surrounded by a cloud of lavender and chamomile and vanilla, either from the scent lingering from the candle he just put out or the fabric spray he just drenched his blankets in or the lotion he smeared all over himself that’s so fancy it’s called _body souffle_.

He’s got ambient rain sounds playing from a modified version of the spell _Magic Mouth_ , along with the music box Johann had given him for Candlenights playing softly below it, blocking out any _unwanted outside noises_ , like, say, Merle sawing logs on the other side of the wall.

He’s even got a face mask, something that’s cherry blossom scented and will apparently smooth and moisturize his skin and brighten his complication, which will hopefully help with the dark circle’s he’s gained from the Director’s fucking ridiculously long training sessions, living with two absolute boner heads, and having to deal with numerous sleepless nights spurred on by night terrors about garlic and elderberries and a man he can’t recognize falling, falling, falling away as Taako stares, hopeless, helpless, wand held aloft—

It should be a perfect night. Objectively, it is. He’s comfy, he’s cosy, he’s safe. The world isn’t ending, no one’s trying to serve him his own ass on a platter, he’s in a bed instead of roughing it out on the fucking _adventuring trail_. It’s great, really. Absolutely choice. Could not be better for ol’ Taako.

Except…

Except, as he’s lying in bed, he finds himself longing for something (someone) to hold on to. He wants something besides his blankets to snuggle into. He wants to bury his face in hair that smells like bergamot and sandalwood and sage, to wrap his arms around a cool, firm torso, to hold and be held and know that when he wakes up in the morning, there’ll be a pair gorgeous red eyes staring at him.

He wants Kravitz there, with him, and he never wants to go to bed without him again.

The thought would knock him on his ass if he wasn’t already lying down.

So instead he just stares at his ceiling, resisting the urge to get up and pace or look over his spellbook or make enough baked goods to feed a small army or a single Magnus.

Because he loves Kravitz.

He _loves Kravitz_.

Like—like, for real. He loves Kravitz in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever loved anyone else, ever, and it’s freaking him _the whole fuck out_.

He—okay. Alright. It’s not as if… Look, he… Taako loves _some people_ , okay? Or, like—he’s fond of them. Tolerates them. Finds their company not entirely deplorable.

There’s Magnus, when he’s not doing dumb shit that’ll get them all killed. Merle, when he’s not being absolutely disgusting and scarring them all for whatever life they have left before Magnus gets them all killed. The kid.

Hell, even the other Bureau employees, they’re—cool. Taako cares about them, kinda, in a totally chill, nonchalant, noncommittal way.

But Kravitz…

Taako doesn’t think he’s ever been _in love_ before (he didn’t even really think he could _be_ ‘in love,’ didn’t think that was something his fucking clownscape of a brain would let him, like, _do_ ) and he pretty much completely doesn’t know how to deal.

Should he call him? It’s late, but not—not _crazy_ late. Kravitz might be up, which—actually, does Kravitz sleep, when he’s not with Taako? He’s, like, dead, technically, so—maybe? Do dead people need to sleep? If so, is 12:14 too late to call?

And if Taako calls, what should he even say? ‘ _Hey, uh, sorry to maybe wake you up or maybe just interrupt your endless pursuit of those who have committed unspeakable acts and profaned the laws of life and death, but I think I’m in love with you and would really like a hug and maybe a nice snuggle sesh and maybe for you to stay with me forever?_ ’

Yeah, uhhhhhhhhh, _hard fucking pass_.

So instead Taako blinks up at the ceiling a few times, grimacing a little because the edges of his face mask are getting caught in his eyelashes, which is what hell feels like, probably.

And then he groans because tonight was going _so well_ , tugs at the ends of his hair, and hoists himself up and out of bed.

He finds himself in the kitchen he technically shares with Magnus and Merle, a dozen little ramekins and bowls filled with spices and oil in front of him, before he even knows what he’s doing.

His hands work of their own accord—two tablespoons of butter, melted in a medium saucepan, mixed with two cloves of crushed garlic and left to sizzle for a moment before slowly adding a fourth of a cup of flour, whisking, whisking, whisking—as he lets his mind wander.

He loves Kravitz. That much—that ship’s done sailed, that cat’s out of the bag, those beans are thoroughly fucking _spilled_ , along with, like, a good amount of milk, so there’s no—there’s no use _crying_ over it. Might as well figure out what to do next, if only so he can plan his best path to escape.

(There’s a voice in his head, one so familiar it makes him dizzy, one that he can _almost_ put a finger on but just barely _can’t_ , that tells him that emotional repression isn’t very hot or sexy of him, and that bad bitches don’t run from their problems.)

(He can’t ignore it, no matter how hard he tries.)

He slowly begins to pour a half-pint of heavy cream into his roux, bracing the saucepan between his hip bone and elbow so that it doesn’t slide off the burner as he’s whisking in the cream.

What would being _in love_ with Kravitz even _look like_? Like, hey, hey gang? Taako is a magical fucking wizard who _lives on the goddamn moon_. He saves the world from magic cups and rocks and shit for a living, and his job isn’t even the weirdest one in this relationship.

They couldn’t live together, probably. Again, Taako isn’t _super_ sure what all the bells and whistles of being an undead servant of the Raven Queen, like, _are,_ but he’s pretty sure a good fantasy credit score isn’t one of them, and gods only know no one is selling any houses or renting any apartments to _Taako, y’know, from TV, the guy who was framed for the murder of 40 innocent people?_

So, like, _that’s_ out, probably.

Could they get married, if Taako was a wanted criminal and Kravitz was dead?

Why the fuck was Taako thinking about getting _married_?

He mixes his bechamel together quickly, watching as the lumps disappeared and the sauce smoothed out.

So no marriage, and no cohabitation, unless Madame Lucretia was cool with skeletal dorks living on her top-secret moonbase, the chances of which Taako was thinking were pretty low, actually.

Which left…

Pretty much what they were already doing. Dates squeezed in between training sessions and necromantic death cults and saving the world and filling out a goddess’ paperwork. Kravitz staying the night when he could. Sappy looks and lingering touches and kisses that were always a little bit afraid.

Taako could tell him.

He scoffs as he adds a shake of ground nutmeg to the sauce and fully incorporates it before beginning to add his handfuls of cheese and set his pasta water to boil.

 _Tell him_. Yeah, okay. Good idea. Hasn’t he already been over this? What’s there to tell him? What’s there to _say_? It—it isn’t going to _change anything_ and Kravitz—

Taako takes a deep breath and refocuses on the movements of his hands as he slices up a Roma tomato (it’s not very pretty—it’s not tomato season, so they’re all a little pale and translucent right now, but oh well) and slides it into the barely-simmering sauce. He rips a few basil leaves off the plant Merle has growing behind their kitchen sink, chops them up, tosses them into the sauce. Dips his pinky in, just to test for seasoning.

Stops before he allows himself to taste.

The low-sodium salt shaker sits on the kitchen counter, and Taako takes a deep breath, in and out, before carefully sprinkling a little bit into the sauce gently bubbling on the stove.

He hesitates for just a moment before adding some to the pasta water, too. Just in case.

The salt continues to be just that—normal, regular-ass looking salt.

Taako lets out a breath, dips his pinky back in, and tastes.

Needs a bit of pepper, could use a bit longer to really pick up that fresh basil flavour, obvi, but overall, it’s fucking fire, of course.

 _Of course_.

See? _See_? Taako’s—Taako’s _good_ , y’know? Good looking, good at cooking. Not a bad spell caster, actually, to fucking _everyone’s_ surprise (aren’t wizards supposed to be, like, smart?), funny as fuck, what’s not to love? He’s good, he’s good, he’s _good out here_ , actually, and he doesn’t—

He doesn’t need the _Grim Reaper_ to say he’s _in love with him_ to prove it.

And _that’s_ why he’s not telling Kravitz. Yet. Probably. Maybe.

(The too-familiar voice in his head makes a sound like a frustrated, exasperated groan, and part of Taako can’t help but agree.)

He lets the sauce simmer for another moment, adds some fusilli to the pot of now-boiling water _,_ shreds some parmesan, chops up some parsley.

He’ll tell—he’ll tell Kravitz eventually. Telling him now wouldn’t _do_ anything, anyway. Kravitz has been busier than usual, lately—apparently, there’s some big, scary-powerful lich out there that Kravitz’s been hunting for a _decade_ who’s been getting more reckless lately, and Krav thinks he might finally be able to bag him—and gods only know _Taako_ isn’t exactly drowning in free time. The Director has been wearing them all fucking _ragged_ , running him clean through his spell slots on the daily, and she’s got that _look_ on her face, a set of her jaw and purse of her lips and slight furrow of her brow that means that something’s about to happen.

(Taako doesn’t question _how_ , exactly, he’s able to get such a perfect read on Lucretia, he just looks at her face and _knows_ , in his gut, that something is coming.)

So probably, with Taako’s luck, he’d tell Kravitz and then be immediately tossed headlong into some wacky adventure full of hijinks and shenanigans that’d probably get him killed.

That, or something worse.

Either way, mark him down for _uh, no fucking thanks, actually_.

Instead, he pulls a bowl down from the kitchen cabinet, perfectly shaped and artfully glazed, the only imperfection being the indentions along the edge, where Taako had placed Kravitz’s fingers as he explained why, exactly, he shouldn’t be fucking murdered in the middle of their first date.

He fills the bowl with pasta, covers it in sauce, tops it with cheese and garnish, and grabs a fork before sitting down at the table.

It’ll be fine.

He allows his thoughts to drift, again, back to Kravitz, the way his smiles are just a bit crooked and his socks are always some atrocious argyle patter. The way he looks when he’s covered in flour after some a failed attempt to make cupcakes or cookies or whatever. His voice, how it sounds when he’s talking about hunting for death criminals or the finer points of fantasy Italian operas or when he can barely speak through his shaky, wheezing laughter.

He’s gentle, and kind, and funny, and a bit of an asshole, and just, like, _ridiculously_ handsome, and Taako loves him,

He loves him.

And that’s not too bad, either.

And maybe he’ll tell him, but not right now.

Right now, he’s going to enjoy this bomb as fuck alfredo, and then pack up the leftovers so he can enjoy it again tomorrow.

That’s his only problem in the kitchen. He can never get the portions right.

For some reason, he always cooks enough for two.

**Author's Note:**

> please please please tell me what you think


End file.
